


The Eighth Rest

by Teigh



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dragons, Fae & Fairies, Gen, Road Trips, Shapeshifting, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-01 18:31:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2783378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teigh/pseuds/Teigh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mid-tour road trips are a necessity, when the majority of your band isn't human.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Eighth Rest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lucifuge5](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucifuge5/gifts).



Drone-song of grasshoppers, the voice of heat and summer, fills the car. Bob’s not sure where they are at the moment, aside from on a back road, in the middle of the country. The directions to the private preserve are clear and Ray’s navigating, so he isn’t too worried. Even if Frank’s driving. The plan is to vanish into the countryside for an afternoon, maybe sleep out under the stars if the weather holds. They all need the break. The opportunity to slip fur during the day for an extended run, has kindled a slow-burning anticipation in Bob.

Brian hadn't even tried to talk them out of the trip. He'd taken one look at them in the bus lounge - Frank trailing sparks in his wake as he paced, the huddled lump of Ways on the couch - and nodded curtly, phone already in hand. The car had appeared pretty quickly, after that call. Bob suspects Brian had already planned for a day trip. Though it’s also possible someone was just looking for an excuse to pawn this junker off on some out-of-towners. It’s more bond-o and rust than metal, and there’s an ominous rattle when it starts up, but it runs. Barely.

Bob loses the coin toss for both driving and shotgun. He narrows his eyes at Frank and Ray, wondering yet again if their particular affinities include the ability to manipulate metal. 

 

Bob, much to his grumpy dismay, ends up sitting on the hump, a sleepy Way curled up on either side. Lester is a too warm weight on his feet, but Bob doesn’t mind that. The dragon is probably worst off, of all of them; he's been stuck in his schnauzer form for most of the last two months. Bob knows that close contact with his horde-folk helps maintain the dog seeming, so he can't begrudge Lester his location, despite the sweaty feet. One thing that this piece of shit car has is legroom, thank god.

It doesn't have a working radio - which sucks - or air conditioning. They just roll down the windows and let the wind whip in. Frankly, Bob likes that better anyway; July's multitude of scents eddies in around them, twining around the familiar scents of his band. It’s almost as good as running. 

The edge of Mikey’s wing curls against the back of Bob’s neck, as he slumps deeper into sleep. Since Mikey keeps his wings tucked in close quarters, it’s a clear indication of his exhaustion. Bob doesn’t mind that either. He’s worried, but also too comfortable to move. The wingtip rests, heavy warm velvet across his nape, loosening tendons and tight muscles. A headache Bob didn’t even realize he had fades. He falls asleep to the steady thud-hiss of tires on blacktop beneath him.

 

A loud clunk and hissing wakes him. If it hadn’t, the bony elbow digging into his side would have done the trick. Pulling himself fully to consciousness is still like swimming up through sun-warm honey.

“Wazzut?” Bob manages. 

“Something’s wrong with the car,” Gerard says.

Great. Well, at least he’s completely awake now.

 

Bob doesn’t know how long he stands, staring at the car’s steaming innards. “I think it's the transmission.”

”How do you know?” Ray asks.

Bob grips the edge of the hood and counts to ten. He very carefully does not bear down on the metal. The car might be a piece of shit, but it's a borrowed piece of shit. 

”I don't know, which is why I said ‘I think’,” Bob says.

Ray makes a face at him. “Sorry.”

”It's cool.” It's easy enough to say to Ray. Bob knows that Ray actually means the apology. He leans up against the side of car, scrubs a hand through his hair. The metal is warm against his thighs. “I'm a drummer, not a mechanic.”

They wait a beat for the inevitable Star Trek comment from Gerard, before remembering that he's gone exploring with Mikey and Frank. The matching sheepish looks they share at the realization sets both of them snickering. Bob fishes out his cigarettes and offers the pack. Ray shakes his head, but grabs them a couple bottles of water from the back seat.

Bob glances around, looking for grey fur. ”Where's Lester?”

”With Frank.”

Bob grunts in reply, and tries to not think about how quickly that situation could become a shit show. It's not his responsibility, though. And Ray seems pretty chill about it, so he focuses on smoking. 

“So now what?”

Bob shrugs, the shoulder of his hoodie rubbing against the rust at the edge of the doorframe, sending flakes pattering to the asphalt. “Call a tow truck.”

“Oh.” Ray doesn't bother to hide his disappointment.

Bob bites back an apology. It isn't his fault the car is just a long push away from the junkyard. Still…

”I want to get there too.” Bob says, and really, want is an understatement. The need to pull on fur is so strong, it makes his back teeth ache.

”I know. You shifted to fur a couple of nights ago, but your last run was Salt Lake, and that was over two weeks ago.”

Bob looks at him, surprised. He didn’t think that anyone in the band kept track of his shifting, outside of the full moons. 

Ray snorts. “I do pay attention.”

Bob was abruptly glad for the camouflage of his fresh sunburn. ”I didn't think...”

”Obviously.”

”Fuck off.”

They trade grins and lean back in companionable silence. The cooling engine ticks, a metronome for the insect hum in the fields around them. 

 

Bob is absently popping the empty bottle against his thigh, playing his own counter-rhythm to the summer drone, when the rest of the band reappears. Lester is bounding through the tall grass ahead of them. He’s still dog-shaped, though he cuts a swath through the field several times larger that his present form. Bob is very glad they are far away from the Interstate. 

“No luck with the car?” Gerard asks.

Bob shakes his head. 

”Lester!” Ray sounds disgusted. “Did you go roll under burdocks?”

Bob looks over and winces. Brown burrs are caught in the long hair along the back of Lester’s legs and in his beard. It looks like he even has some matted in his eyebrows.

”Dude,” he says with feeling. Bob's been there; he knows exactly how much it's going to suck to get the tangles out. 

”Oh man, that looks painful.” Gerard says, leaning close.

Lester scowls up at him and yelps as the burrs along his jaw move. “It is,” he grumbles.

Frank shakes his head and slouches against the car, fingers tapping against the door. “I told you that you shoulda skipped the shortcut.”

Gerard frowns up at Frank, lips pushing down around his cigarette. Frank just grins and fumbles through his pants pockets for a cigarette of his own. He unearths smokes, but no lighter. With a muttered curse, the end of Frank’s cigarette sizzles, flaring with an inch-tall tongue of flame before dying down to an ember. Bob wrinkles his nose at the brief burst of sulphur in the air.

“I understand why you wouldn’t want to shift completely, but even a fucking hint of scales would have prevented this,” Ray says.

Lester growls, and Bob smells smoke. “I forgot about burrs. And fur. Together.”

Ray sighs, pushing his hair away from his neck. “It has been a while.”

Their last flight had been nine days ago, outside of Toledo. They’d had to cut it short because of some territorial bullshit with a mating pair of wyvern. Bob couldn’t remember the last time Lester had stuck to fur and ran instead. Maybe that place south of Seattle? 

“I could help get them out. I'm good with knots.” Gerard offers, settling in the back seat. 

”That’s what she said.” Frank says and snickers. 

Bob rolls his eyes. “Can it, Iero.”

Frank makes a kissyface at Bob and climbs up on the car roof. It creaks ominously at the additional weight. The smoke from Gerard’s cigarette curls friendly tendrils around his dangling feet before dissipating.

Lester gives Gerard the stink-eye for a couple long beats, before cautiously slinking over. He rests his front paws on the door frame and flinches as a knot of burrs rasps against the metal. Bob knows that Gerard means for his smile to be reassuring, but it’s too honest, just shy of feral and shows too many teeth. After heaving one long-suffering sigh, Lester climbs into the car and settles next to Gerard. Seat springs twang in protest at his weight.

Gerard starts asking him questions about Brooklyn subways - it sounds like a continuation of a conversation about landmarks and navigating tunnels by vibration that Bob had overheard on the bus - and starts teasing the burrs free. The strands of dog hair did seem to untangle quickly from the burrs. There’s something slightly hypnotic about the way Gee's fingers weave through the silky fur. The breeze shifts and Bob gets a big whiff of lightning and something spicy, tangled with the scent of sun-warm daisies. It’s not quite the smell of a glamour, but there’s definitely a bit of fey magic involved in the process. It’s difficult for to look away, but he manages. 

The scent of fresh ozone grows. Bob frowns, glancing around. That’s not coming from inside the car.

”Hey, where did Mikey go?” he says.

And then he startles as the car roars to life. 

The hood slams closed and Mikey ambles around the side of the car. His wings waver into visibility around him, like a vivid-colored heat mirage for an instant before fading from view again. 

”Mikey, what...” Ray shutters to a stop, looking a little wide-eyed. His expression is a perfect mirror for Bob’s own surprise. 

“How do you do that?” Bob says. He can’t remember Mikey showing any interest in engines before now. He certainly hadn’t seemed interested when the van had thrown a belt in Germany. 

Mikey shrugs. “We talked. It doesn't really want to stay by the side of the road. Bob has to drive, though. The car said no more Frank driving.”

”Hey! I'm a good driver.”

“It doesn't like the way your foot feels on the brake,” Mikey said, and slants a glance at Bob. “By the way, don't call it a piece of shit.”

”Sure.” Bob says slowly. He looks at the car. “Um... I'm sorry.”

The engine settles into a smoother purr.

Mikey nods a little. “I told it you'd get it.” And he walks around the car. “Gee, we're going.” He says as he passes his brother. A burr ball sails out the window. “I call shotgun.”

Frank opens his mouth to protest, but Bob just leveled a glare at him. Frank slides off the car. Carefully.

 

“We should head back… “ Ray says, reluctance slowing his words.

Bob looks at Mikey, who shrugs. The humid air in the car swirls as invisible wings rustle. 

Bob flexes his hands against the cracked plastic of the steering wheel. The scent of hope is almost as strong as the smell of smoke around him. Glancing into the rear-view mirror, he catches Gerard’s eye. The irises are shifting color in the afternoon light, regaining their gold and green. Looks like the walk did him some good. There’s less darkness, more gleam in his gaze. Gerard still looks worn out, but he meets Bob’s eyes in the rear-view mirror calmly. 

It’s his decision then. Right.

With a crunch of gravel, he pulls back onto the road, continuing in their previous direction. Their destination isn’t that far away. He can almost feel the press of bare earth under his paws. Whoops of joy - and a howl from Lester - whip out the windows, trailing in their wake. Bob smiles, swallowing his own howl, and watches the road unfurl before them.

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of a series, playing with common bandom fanon cliches. The cliches used here are: _Brian will know what to do._ and _Needing a break during tour, from the tour._ Links to the other ficlets in this series will be added after the author reveals.
> 
> Many, many thanks to turps, for her awesome beta. Your are the shiniest of stars, my dear. Thank you! 
> 
> Happy Holidays, Lucifuge5!


End file.
